


Who You Gonna Call?

by pyrimidine



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrimidine/pseuds/pyrimidine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ghosthunters AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who You Gonna Call?

RAY PERSON - TESTIMONIAL

 

  


 

"So like, after my band broke up, I was just wandering around for a while, with this Jesus-ed out look and  _bleep_. I even had the long hair and everything. Only wore sandals all the time, stuff like that. Then I got this job working nights at a 24-hour fitness club, and  _bleeeeeep_ , that was no  _bleep_ ing present, dude. I mean, listen, let's be real here. The only people who come in to work out at 3 o'clock in the morning are, 1.) Ken Doll yuppies who are tweaking real hard and need someplace to run off all the  _bleep_ ing speed they snorted, 2.) busted-ass cretins who are embarrassed to be seen in the daylight, and 3.) some goddamn pervs who want to hide in the bathroom to listen to people piss. It was really  _bleep_ ing beautiful, and I feel like I learned a lot about humanity over that summer.  
  
"So anyway, one day those ass-hats in management finally stop  _bleep_ ing each other's  _bleep_ s and  _bleep_ ing move me to the morning shift, when all these bright-eyed bitches are coming in to Stairmaster their way to happiness before they go to a job they hate. And one of those bright-eyed bitches was Brad. And that's how I met the Iceman."  
  
  
*  
  
  
"The EVP meter's out -- of -- whack," Ray says. He slaps the walkman-sized EVP against his palm between words. "Mother -- fucking -- equipment -- malfunctions."  
  
"What's an EVP?" asks Reporter, scribbling away in his stupid moleskine notebook that probably contains sketches of flaccid penises and old dudes with poochy stomachs from a community college drawing class. Reporter looks like the kind of dude who spends his days walking around parks in a muumuu, smiling at all the children and carrying around a bubble machine. Reporter basically looks like a big gaywad.  
  
Reporter's probably going to shit his pants by the time they actually get to the paranormal part, and it's going to be awesome.  
  
"Look, Reporter, if you don't know your acronyms by now, I really can't help you out." Ray shrugs with a regretful expression.  
  
"It stands for 'Electronic Voice Phenomena'," Walt explains, looking up from where he's hard at work loading shotguns full of rock salt.  
  
"For example," Ray barrels on, "if you don't know what EVP stands for, then you can't tell me what's wrong with it, and that means you can't help me fix the damn thing, and  _that_  means that you're about as useful as a super, super hot chick with a chastity pledge and a wicked gag reflex. I mean, shit, you probably broke it in the first place. Did you leave it out in direct sunlight?"  
  
"Actually, I think it's because you spilled Coke all over it last week," Walt points out. Ever the voice of fucking reason.  
  
Brad's head pops past the doorframe to give Ray a withering look that lasts for about five uncomfortable seconds before he disappears again. He's got a sixth sense about every single one of his technological toys and its status. He's also got a seventh sense about Nate and  _his_  status. Brad has about nineteen senses, total.  
  
"It's like I'm Icarus," Ray tells Walt, "and you're the burning hot sun that melts my wings and kills me. Quit raining on my parade all the time."  
  
The EVP is still blinking a sad-face in red LED lights. Ray sighs and tosses it to the side. Sell out and sign a contract for a six-episode miniseries and they're still broke. Life totally teabags him sometimes.

  



End file.
